


Mother Mary Comes To Me

by Safiyabat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Gen, Mark of Cain, Mentions of Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 11:43:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2771768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Safiyabat/pseuds/Safiyabat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An angelic spell that only works on one night of the year.  A soul in heaven that has a very special connection to the beneficiaries.  Two very wounded men in need of healing.  Have yourself a merry little Christmas.  A gift for LJ user tammyrenh for the SPN J2 Secret Santa Exchange at LJ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mother Mary Comes To Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TammyRenH](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TammyRenH/gifts).



> Extra special thanks to my beta, SweetSamOfMine!
> 
> The prompt, chosen from five given for the exchange, was this:
> 
> 3\. Cas finds Mary in heaven and for some reason or spell or whatever is able to give her the power to help her sons. It's good for one day only - Christmas Day - and she can only do one thing for each son. It's up to the writer/videor/artist what this thing is - she can right a wrong, she can arrange that they meet their soul mates, she can heal some of their psychic wounds (but not all of them because then they wouldn't be Sam and Dean).

Castiel stood in front of the small pocket of reality. He’d been searching for weeks and to be perfectly honest he’d almost despaired of finding this place. Mary Campbell had made a deal with not just any demon, but the ruler of Hell himself. People who made deals with demons, even if they did not bargain with their own souls, went to Hell under typical circumstances. At the same time she’d sacrificed herself while a ghost to save the life of the son she’d sold to Azazel and she’d repented of her sin, so damnation wasn’t necessarily her fate but it didn’t necessarily follow that her spirit was in Heaven. After all, John Winchester’s soul was not among the saved even though he’d escaped the Pit. 

But here she was, in the metaphorical flesh. The memory she was reliving at the moment was of a petting zoo. Dean could have been no more than three, or perhaps a very young four. She crouched down beside the toddler, helping him to hold his hand steady as a baby goat lapped a pile of kibble out of his soft, meaty hands. “Stand very still, Dean,” she murmured into his blond curls. “Let him get what he needs.” 

“It tickles, Mommy,” the little boy giggled. 

For a moment Castiel considered leaving. This was Dean before the gears of the Apocalypse began to turn. This memory dated from before Mary became pregnant with Sam, before Dean’s life became changed irrevocably. His tiny face was so carefree, so loving, so happy. And Mary’s heaven was a day at the petting zoo with her son, her older boy, the one she was never destined to lose. He didn’t want to intrude on this, to mar this perfect peace. After all, an angel was supposed to defend this solace, not interrupt it. 

It was ultimately the face of little Dean that stiffened his resolve. He settled himself into a visible form and cleared his throat. “Mary Campbell?” he greeted softly. 

The retired hunter turned around, her toddler son still holding his hand out and talking to her as though she were still at his side. Sam would call it creepy. Dean would leave at best. “Who are you?” she demanded defensively, keeping herself between Castiel and Dean’s image. 

“My name is Castiel. I’m an angel of the Lord.” He paused. People tended to become upset when they learned of their own death, although this woman’s younger son stood out as an exception. “You’re in Heaven, Mary.” 

Her resolve stiffened for a moment. “I know that.” Blue eyes narrowed. “What is it that you want?” 

“You’re surprised that an angel of the Lord would visit for social reasons?” He couldn’t help but grin.

“Being dead, you remember things that others ‘helped’ you to forget. You’ll forgive me if angels don’t exactly fill me with confidence.” She might have been a good foot shorter than Sam, but their stance was similar. So was the way she watched Castiel as she readied herself. It made Castiel shake his head in amazement; they’d never really known each other, but they were so much alike.

“I apologize; that is not appropriate angelic behavior. If it’s any consolation, your son dragged the angel who erased your brain into the deepest darkest part of Hell.” 

She startled. “Dean did?” 

Why should Castiel be surprised at such a response? He tried not to let it chafe; it was no different from his own more often than not. “No. Sam.” 

She paused, thoughtful. “Huh.” She shook her head. “I’m glad he… you know… and everything.” She frowned. “But you didn’t come here to give me an update about my sons.” 

“In a way I did. “ He sighed and sat down on a bench. “Mary, I’ve had the pleasure of knowing your sons for several years. I haven’t always been a good ally, but I’ve always cared for Dean and I’ve come to care for Sam almost as much.” 

Her lips folded and her eyes tightened. “Almost as much, huh?” 

Castiel’s eyes narrowed. He was not, after all, the one who had used Sam as currency. Granted, Mary had not been aware that it was Sam that Azazel had wanted. And she had died horribly trying to defend her son. “Dean and I do share a more profound bond,” he said, feeling his stance soften even as he spoke. “Look. Their lives have not been easy.”

“My youngest son traveled through time to beg me to prevent his birth,” she grimaced. “I’d say ‘not easy’ is an understatement.” 

Ah, Castiel thought. So her expressions had not been intended to convey distaste for Sam, but guilt and dismay. He didn’t know why he had expected Mary to be any easier to read than Sam or Dean. “Things have only become more complicated since then. They are not happy men, Mary.” 

She glanced back at the memory of her son, then turned her eyes back to Cas. “That’s… I mean, why are you telling me this?” 

“I don’t think that anyone can completely ‘fix’ them. Not until their time is up.” He gestured toward the bench. 

She remained standing. “How old are they now?”

“It has been thirty-one years and one month since your death.” 

“Then it should be a while yet.” She raised an eyebrow.

“They have both died multiple times since then. My goal in coming to you is to stop that from happening quite so frequently. The last time Dean died he became a demon, Mary.” She gasped, pressing her hands to her mouth. “And the last time Sam died he made an agreement with Death Himself that the act would be irreversible.” 

“But it was reversed,” she observed. Her sons’ keen intelligence had come from somewhere. 

“The reaping was interrupted, but I have no reason to believe that – well, the fact that Death Himself respects your son enough to honor his request and to show up in person to reap him –“ 

She held up a hand and Cas stopped speaking. “Okay. I get it. Not really. But close enough.” She closed her eyes for a moment, the way Dean did when he was getting a headache. “I’m not sure what it is that you want me to do about it, Castiel. I feel terrible – I mean, it’s my fault, all of it. I just… I mean, I’m here. It’s better than I thought I’d ever get, don’t get me wrong. But it’s still not exactly someplace where I can have any kind of effect on things back home, you know?”

He let himself smile. “Ah. That’s where you’re wrong. I’ve found a spell. It’s very unusual. It only works on one day of the year, and the recipients need to have a very close connection to the person chosen to reach out to them. But it is workable.” 

He’d been going for awe. He should have known better. “Mmm-hmm. And how exactly is this supposed to work?” 

“An angel with a connection to the recipients grants you the power to heal one psychic wound. That angel would be me. At the end of the day you get to return to Heaven and your paradise. When their time is over you may be able to see them again.” He spread his hands wide. “Your real sons, not a construct.” 

“That’s not possible,” she pointed out sharply.

“I’m afraid that on his most recent visit to Heaven an old friend showed Sam how to ‘hack’ Heaven.” He knew that his face wasn’t exactly approving, but he couldn’t help himself. “He is smarter than he should be, but it’s worked out well on several occasions. Will you do it? Will you help your sons to be a little less eager to run toward their own demise?” 

She only hesitated for a moment. “Of course.”

“There is a catch.” 

She rolled her eyes. “You couldn’t have told me that before?”

“Would it have stopped you?”

“Not if my sons’ lives are at stake,” she admitted with a rueful smile. “What is it?” 

“You have to know everything.” He reached out and touched his fingers to Mary’s temple, allowing for the flow of information to the woman’s mind. 

She stood still for a moment, eyes rolled back into her head as her mind processed everything she’d just experienced. Then she collapsed to the ground, twitching. 

Castiel let her adjust for a moment before helping her up. “Are you recovered?” 

“What do you think?” she snapped. “How do you just recover from that? I mean – everything that’s happened to them! Everything that they’ve been through, and it’s all my fault!” Her hand trembled as she pushed Cas’ away, but her eyes blazed with a mixture of emotions. Castiel couldn’t quite understand all of them, or how they could all coexist - he saw both overwhelming guilt and a kind of incandescent rage. She’d never really had a chance, not any more than her sons did, and now she understood that even her love of John was not true. Thankfully, she could not actually crack under the strain of the knowledge here. Heaven had some advantages, even for humans.

He shook his head. “Some of it is the result of your choice, Mary,” he admitted, guiding her back to the bench. “But Mary, you need to understand. The choice that you made, it was engineered for you. You didn’t even choose to love John. Your relationship with him was engineered at Heaven’s orders specifically so that Dean and Sam would be born. Once they were conceived the effects of the cupid’s arrow wore off, but at the time your desperation to keep John alive was very real and very valid. It would have taken a great deal of willpower – and foreknowledge – to resist it.” He bit his tongue but decided to release the comment. “I only know one person who might have been capable – might – and he is your son.” 

“Yes,” she murmured, eyes distant. “I think that I know what I need to do. Can you take me to them?” Her eyes had already begun to glow. 

*

The bunker looked like a cross between a bank vault and a university library. It wasn’t the kind of normal she’d wanted for her sons – two-story house with a yard and a swingset, soccer practice and vegetable garden and prom dates. It also wasn’t the endless series of quirky-but-filthy motel rooms with their vermin and weird stains that she’d gleaned from Castiel’s information transfer. God. She’d thought she was sparing them when she gave up hunting, but all she’d done was keep John from knowing how to do it right. 

The place wasn’t silent, not exactly. All around her was the subtle thrum of electricity, of the motor that circulated air to the far corners of the underground lair, the refrigerator’s chiller and whatever it was that kept the computer room running. Computers hadn’t been part of hunting when she’d been doing it but she knew that her son had brought the profession kicking and screaming into the Information Age. Apparently the people who had built this place had anticipated that. 

Even though it was Christmas no one had bothered to decorate. It was as though the residents had no idea that the day was a holiday. “They do own decorations,” Castiel informed her. “I found them in one of my visits. They are in one of the storage rooms in a box dating back to nineteen thirty-five. I pointed it out to Sam when I found it.” 

She huffed out a laugh. “Did he respond?”

“No.”

“That’s kind of sad. I always loved Christmas when I was a little girl.” She closed her eyes. She could feel her sons if she concentrated, or rather if she didn’t concentrate on not feeling them. Their psyches burned, more painful than when Mary had been pinned to the ceiling. “I should start.” 

Her connection with Dean was stronger. She tried not to feel bad about that. After all, she’d had close to five years with Dean, five years of watching him grow and learn and develop. She’d gotten to truly bond with him, whereas Sam was still in that “loud and smelly luggage” stage when she’d died. Not that he’d ever been all that loud, she reflected. She followed the pull toward one of the bedrooms and moved through the door. 

Dean’s room was about what she’d expected. It was home-like, personable. He had a personal weaponry collection on the walls, record albums in careful order on a shelf. The bedside table held a mostly-empty bottle of whiskey, a glass and a framed photograph of Mary herself holding Dean in the sun. 

Dean himself lay on his bed, asleep. He’d stretched out to his full length and the smell of whiskey filled the air. She reached out and stroked his face, unable to feel hurt by the way he flinched away from her touch. She was, after all, a ghost. Her hands were cold. His pain radiated off of him like heat from molten metal. He grunted as a nightmare took hold of him and she couldn’t wait any longer. She entered his mind, bracing herself for impact. 

Whatever the nightmare had been, Mary’s presence banished it without her ever having to experience it. She supposed that whatever wacky powers that dark-haired angel had given her must have had some benefits beyond their original intention, she thought with a smirk. She waved her hand and the disconcertingly gray, empty dreamscape was replaced by the image of their living room all decorated for Christmas, just as it had been on their last Christmas together. 

Her son, grown now, turned around. “Okay, what the actual fuck?” he snapped, looking around at the memory. His hand went to a holster at his back, but a thought from Mary replaced the gun with a candy cane. He scowled, and then his brain caught up with his experience. “Mom?” he whispered. 

“Yeah, Dean,” she whispered back. “It’s me.” She opened up her arms to him. “It’s been a long time.”

“Forever,” he admitted. He licked his lips. “But… I don’t usually… this is kind of weird.” He ran a hand through his short, dirty-blond hair. “This isn’t the kind of dream that I usually have.”

“I know. I was sent by an angel.”

“Angels have boundary issues, man.”

“You’re telling me. Your friend Castiel is worried about you.” She let her arms fall. Obviously Dean wasn’t ready yet. “I got out on a day pass.” 

“Out? Out of… “

“Heaven, Dean. Out of Heaven.” She smiled at him and sat down on the couch. She’d loved this couch when they’d bought it at the discount furniture place – perfect, she’d thought, for a growing family. 

“In Heaven? But Ash said he couldn’t find you!” His beautiful green eyes widened. “And I didn’t think Winchesters went to Heaven. Campbells either.” 

She let her mouth twitch up. “Yeah, well, I guess I’m a special case. And I worked very hard to hide myself up there. I wasn’t eager to have any angels find me once I got up there, you know. Not once I remembered what they did.” 

He sighed. “Can’t say as I blame you. They’re all dicks.”

“One brought me here to you.” She patted the seat next to her on the couch and even after all this time he came and threw himself onto the cushions. He bounced a little, as though the furniture was reacting like he was three instead of thirty-five. “I’m supposed to be able to help you with one thing in your life.” 

He threw back his head and laughed. “Really.” It wasn’t even a question, just a statement of such bitterness that it tugged at her heart. “Can you go back in time and make it so I didn’t tell my little brother that he’s been sucking the life out of my life since the day he was born? Because I’m pretty sure that’s right up there as a top five Dean Winchester banner moment.” 

She made herself smile softly. She’d been an only child, but she had cousins. “I’m pretty sure most older siblings feel that way on some level, Dean. You started out as the center of two people’s world and then all of a sudden there’s this… red, wrinkly crying thing that needs all of their time and attention. Even when your mom tries to make room to give you some undivided attention, some alone time, it’s still a massive change from before. There’s no getting around that. It’s normal to feel that way to some extent, even without everything that’s happened to you in the meantime!”

“But I’m pretty sure it’s not normal to say it to your suicide-case brother,” he shot back. “I mean, I said that to him. Those were my words. I try to pawn it off as ‘Oh, I was a demon’ and he lets me, but I mean, it was still me.” 

She stroked his hair and he leaned into her touch. “I know, Dean. And you meant it.” 

“I mean, why is he even still here?” 

“Because he knows it’s not all you think. It’s not the only way you feel about him. It’s part of how you feel, but it’s not the only thing you feel. Dean, you have a lot of issues. I know that, and I wish that I could help you fix all of them. A lot of them stem from things that are my fault.” 

“No!” he snapped, turning to look at her. “It was those winged dicks and those hell bitches. They were using you, trying to make something happen and there’s no way you could have known. None.”

“It’s not like I didn’t know that making a deal with a demon was a bad plan, Dean. I grew up hunting. Heck, I listened to Robert Johnson albums too. Come on, give me some credit.” She felt her mouth twist into a wry grin.

“Yeah, but the cupid had already shot you with its arrow. You couldn’t have not made a deal to save Dad!” he insisted.

“Sam was in love with Madison and he still shot her in the heart,” she pointed out softly, hand on his. “Sometimes love means letting go, even though you don’t want to. That’s a lesson you need to learn, Dean. But I think you’ve got a bigger problem.”

“Oh yeah?” He snorted. “What’s that?” 

She reached out and put a hand on the Mark. It throbbed beneath her touch. “Castiel said that I could fix any one thing, right? He didn’t say how big that one thing could be.” She grinned. 

Dean frowned. “This? It’s not a problem, Mom.” He put a hand over hers, almost as if he was going to try to take it off but not really. “It’s a bonus. It helps me. It makes everything… clearer, I guess. It makes me calmer.”

She lifted his chin with her other hand. “No, Dean. No it doesn’t. It whips you into a frenzy of bloodlust and makes you dangerous to be around. It needs to go away.” She closed her eyes and exerted her will. The Mark burned. The evil of it threatened to engulf her and for a moment she almost thought it had been too much. It came from Lucifer himself, it was as old as murder and it had survived Dean’s transformation into a demon and then back into a human again. She couldn’t do this and it had been arrogant in the extreme to think that she could. 

But no – Castiel and his ritual and his Grace and whatever else had given her power, given her the ability to fix any one thing. He hadn’t given her limits and Dean was her son, her firstborn. She wasn’t about to give up on him, not for anything. Slowly, the sludge-like feeling that the Mark gave her receded. 

Dean winced and grunted, but his eyes widened as the Mark disappeared from his arm. “You did it!” he exclaimed, a shaky laugh issuing from somewhere deep inside his chest. He sounded ten years younger. “I can’t believe it!” 

“Sleep now, Dean.” She kissed his forehead. “You should be able to stay in this dream until morning, at least.” Her skin glowed with a vaguely bluish light, but she didn’t care. She’d saved her son; that was the important thing. So what if she looked like a comic book character for a while? She felt fine, physically. Euphoric, almost. 

He looked around as if seeing the room for the first time. “Okay, Mom.” A cup of hot cocoa appeared in his hand and he smiled a little bit. “Merry Christmas.” 

Mary left the dream, alone in Dean’s bedroom with a peacefully sleeping son. The Mark had disappeared from his forearm, although a pink square of scarred flesh remained to remind him of his ordeal. Well, that was fine. He shouldn’t forget. He should be forgiven, but he should remember lest he be tempted toward the same mistakes. She carded her fingers through his hair again, wishing she could stay and enjoy the little boy she’d enjoyed taking to the library and the petting zoo, but she didn’t have time. She had another son to help and she doubted his issue would be as easy to identify as Dean’s – or as easy to solve. 

She followed the pull toward another room. The contrast could not have been more stark. Dean’s room belonged to a warrior, to be sure, but it clearly belonged to someone; it was a home. This room was a storage room with a bed in it. Storage boxes lined shelves. Books and files had been piled on top of the boxes. No toiletries had been laid out on top of the dresser but a duffel bag had been set out on top and left open. The bed had been made with military precision; no one had even attempted to sleep in it tonight. There was an uncomfortable-looking couch and on that couch sat an uncomfortable-looking man, long legs braced against a coffee table that had nothing on it. 

He looked up from yet another book as she materialized inside the room and pulled a knife from… somewhere. Mary had been hunting her entire life, she had extra-normal senses and she still didn’t know where he’d been hiding that knife. Or why he’d been hiding a knife while reading alone in his room at two o’clock on Christmas morning. “You shouldn’t be able to get in here,” he growled, eyes narrowed as he rose to his feet. She noticed the title of the book that he set aside with his free hand: Angelic Marks on the Human Soul. Why did a book like that even exist? In her day they thought that angels were just a myth used to make the dark things seem like they had some kind of balancing force arrayed against them. 

She knew better now. “Castiel sent me.” 

He snorted. “Really?” 

She realized what he was probably thinking. “Sam, I’m not some angel… um, borrowing Mary Campbell. I really am your mother.” 

His face relaxed, but not in acceptance. “Okay then, ah, ‘Mary.’ Why would Castiel be sending _you_ to visit _me_?” He gave a low and not very humorous chuckle. He did not put down the knife. A moment’s search through the angel’s memory dump showed her that it had once belonged to the demon that had seduced the boy and led him to open Lucifer’s cage. “Tell me who you really are.” 

She sighed. “Is it really so hard to believe that your mother would come to you on Christmas day? You’ve seen me before. It brought you comfort.” 

“And it wasn’t real,” he returned immediately, proving that the thought had already occurred to him. “I may be a lot of things but stupid isn’t one of them. I learn from my mistakes.”

“So because you hallucinated me during your involuntary detox you can’t believe that I’m really here now.” She shook her head. “This was easier with Dean.” She and Dean already had a relationship when she’d died. She knew how to talk to him. This son was a mystery to her - she’d had Castiel’s information dump, but that hadn’t given her any real understanding about Sam, how to read his expressions or his feelings. His angular, vulpine features weren’t giving her any hints, either. For crying out loud, the last time she really saw him – besides that half a minute in their old house – he was still in diapers, no longer than her arm really. Now the guy was a giant. She didn’t know what he liked, she had no idea how to bring comfort. Instead all she could do was stand here and stare at him. “The angel showed me your history, Sam, but that didn’t let me get to know… you.” 

He shrugged, one shoulder moving less readily than the other. “Yeah, well. I can’t really say Cas and I are all that close, assuming he is the one who sent you.” 

She sat down on the edge of his bed and stood back up again. “Is that seriously your bed? Have you replaced this mattress since you moved in?” 

He shrugged again. “No wonder your shoulder isn’t healing. For crying out loud, Sam. Look. Call Castiel on the phone and ask him. It’s not like he’ll be sleeping.” 

He made a face – a lift of the eyebrows, a nod of the head, a turning down of the corners of the mouth – that was so like her mother’s that she almost lost it for a moment. His phone was in his hand before she could blink an eye. “Cas? Hey. It’s Sam. Listen, there’s something here – it is? You sent her? Why?” His face darkened. “Cas, why would you do that to her? Don’t you think you guys have used her enough without putting her through this too?” He was angry… with Cas? She stepped back, confused as he listened to the angel for a little longer, nostrils flaring. 

Finally he hung up, having gotten himself under control. “Look. I’m sorry that Cas pulled you out of Heaven. It was out of line.”

“Sam, I was willing to come.” She met his eyes, trying to figure out why he was so upset. “Did he explain why he asked me to come?”

“No. He just said that he sent you to ‘help.’” He snorted again.

“He came to me and told me that my boys were going through a difficult patch and needed my help. I wasn’t able to be a part of your life growing up. I never got to help you with your homework, or with your teen angst, or your college applications.” He gave a strangled little laugh. “I want to help you now.”

“Well, I mean, Dean, okay. He needs help, and he was your son. For real, I mean. You got to actually be his mother and do mom things with him. Me, I killed you. You shouldn’t want to help me, you shouldn’t want to come within a thousand miles of me.” He backed away. 

She shook her head. “Sam. You couldn’t even crawl by the time I died. You certainly didn’t kill me. I made a deal with a demon, then I tried to go back on it. That’s what got me killed. Not you. Not anything that you did. I don’t care what your brother said to you; I don’t care what he resents you for. Or your father. Your brother was a scared little boy who just lost the most important person in his life and your father failed in his duty to his sons, okay? He should have recognized that Dean had a problem and gotten him help, he should have recognized that he had a problem and gotten help for himself instead of harboring resentment against you for your entire life and encouraging the same in Dean.” 

“He didn’t –“ 

She put a hand on his arm and he flinched away. “Sam. He didn’t mean to. He didn’t do it intentionally, and he was hurting. But he did do it, and he did encourage it in Dean. Now, Dean tried his best. A lot of things have happened that were terrible and I’d say that most of him didn’t feel that way, didn’t let himself feel that way. But your father did on some level blame you, which was wrong. And instead of recognizing that it was wrong and getting help, he just resented you for it.” 

“It could have been worse. He could have been like Max Miller’s dad,” Sam defended. “I mean, we never – I never had to deal with that.” 

“No. Because he had a goal, a target. And that’s good. It’s great. I don’t really approve of how he dragged you boys into it. But –” She shrugged. “We’re not really here to talk about John. I wasn’t there to stop him so I can’t really… you know. Let’s talk about you.”

He looked away. “Dean needs help. I’m fine.” 

“I’m only allowed to help each son with one thing. And I’ve helped him already tonight. It was easier,” she pointed out, looking significantly at the bed, “because he was asleep.” 

“Yeah.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not exactly good at the whole sleep thing.”

“No, you never were. You dreamed, even as a tiny baby. And you fought sleep, so I suppose the dreams must have been bad.” She sighed. “I get that now.” 

“Hey – if I was dreaming like that before Azazel, it’s not because of anything you did.” He stepped forward, speaking gently now. She wanted to laugh at how eager he seemed to reassure her. “It’s something that was always part of me, one more freakish thing that I can’t blame on anyone else. Okay? Don’t… don’t worry about it. It’s not your fault.” He put his hands on her upper arms and bent down to look her in the eyes. “I’m sorry I kept you awake.” 

“Sam. You were a baby. It’s a baby’s job to keep its parents awake, okay?” She laughed a little. “What, you’ve never been around a baby?” His cheeks colored up. “Seriously?” 

“I’m not much good with kids.” He took his huge hands off of her and backed away. “I’m good with books.” 

“You’re good with a lot of things, or so the past few decades seem to show. I mean, you turned your brother human again, Sam. You cured a demon.” She shook her head in amazement. “How is that not a win? You killed two werewolves with one arm strapped down! You’ve killed gods and you’ve saved souls and oh yeah – you’ve saved the world. Twice.” 

He looked up. “No. I’m the one who screwed up the one time. There was no second time.”

“Wrong, kiddo. You prayed to Castiel and got through to him, accepted him when everyone else rejected him. That got him turned around. That got him to come back and purge the souls back into Purgatory and stop pretending to be God.” She smiled gently.

“Sam…” “Look, I’ve done plenty of terrible things to make up for anything good, okay?” He swallowed and looked away again. “You have to help me with something, right? Those are the rules?” She nodded. “All right. Help me help Dean.” 

She laughed. “Nice try, Sam. It’s Christmas. Everyone gets a present. Even you.”

“There’s nothing I need. There’s nothing really that I want that’s realistic, you know.” He offered a weak grin. “Like I told you before, I’m really fine. Thanks, I appreciate it, but I don’t think that unless you’re allowed to just… undo the past year and a half there’s a whole lot of help for me.” 

She calculated the time. “Do you mean – are you talking about when you met with Death? Sam, do you regret that you didn’t go with him?” He looked at her out of the side of his eyes. “Well, yeah. Doesn’t everyone? I mean, Dean would never have become a demon, Kevin would still be alive, maybe all of those other people Gadreel killed would still be alive too. Lester’s soul would be… well, okay, not safe but he would still be able to repent. Dean wouldn’t have done any of the things he did as a demon if I had just… not listened to what I thought was Dean. If I’d stuck by what I knew was right.”

“Sam, you saved six souls in one night, alone. By yourself, with no help. If you hadn’t existed – if you’d gone with Death – those souls would be demons by now.” She reached out to caress his face. 

He closed his eyes and for half a second she thought he was going to allow the contact, but then he stiffened and backed away. “No. I appreciate the sentiment but someone else would have taken that job on. Dean would have gotten the job done faster and better. That one woman probably wouldn’t have hanged herself either. I didn’t do anything special. That’s always been the thing, you know? Dad’s whole argument for forcing us into the life was ‘people are dying.’ As if we were the only people around who could possibly do anything about it. As if we ever did anything to stop it, you know?” He let out a scoffing sound and shook his head. “As if there weren’t fifty other dysfunctional, borderline serial killers out there looking to do the exact same thing. It doesn’t have to be us.” 

She sighed. “I thought the same thing, you know.” 

“Really?” He raised an eyebrow. 

“Oh yeah. And I stand by it. It didn’t have to be me out there on the front lines, and it should never have been you. The whole point of marrying your father, and not some guy my dad picked out for me, was so that my children didn’t get raised as hunters. Didn’t grow up killing like that. You should have a life. You deserve a life. A house. A dog.” She chuckled. “A real mattress.” 

He snorted. “Tried it. Didn’t exactly work out. I don’t think I can really have that anymore, you know?” He folded his lips together. “I mean, for starters my brother sees having sex with the same person more than once as the ultimate betrayal. Then… I mean…. I don’t fit.”

“You did okay in Texas,” she tried. 

“No. I didn’t. I don’t think a single person in Kermit could pick me out of a lineup. And even letting Amelia close enough to –“ He broke off. “Sorry. You don’t need to be hearing that. Anyway. Look. You earned your rest. I don’t want you to waste it on something like me.” 

She took his face in both of her hands and held it still, forcing him to meet her eyes. “Samuel Winchester, you listen to me. You listen closely. You are not a ‘thing.’ You are a person. You are a man. You’re a very large man, but you’re a man. And I love you. You’ve done so much, Sam. You’ve given so much, you’ve accomplished so much more than any human should have been able to do. Any ten humans. You are strong. You’re amazing. I’m immensely proud of you.” She drew him into her arms and down onto the couch, which was marginally more comfortable than the bed. He flinched at her touch but she kept her arms around him, and after a few minutes he relaxed into the embrace. 

She’d held him like this when he’d been an infant, but he wouldn’t have any memory of that at all. Back then he hadn’t cried much and he didn’t cry now, even though she kind of expected it. He just let himself be held, and finally held her back until his breathing evened out and his eyes shut. Now she could reach out with the power bestowed on her by Castiel. 

She reached into his mind, and that wasn’t a comfortable feeling at all. Sam was _old_. He’d spent thousands of years in that Cage, so long that less than half of one percent of his memory had been spent on Earth living in the sunlight. Even that had been harsh, marred by deep feelings of rejection and uncleanliness. It would be impossible to cure his loneliness in one night; she was going back to Heaven, after all. It would be impossible to create a sense of self-worth in the same amount of time; he would sense such a thing as a construct even if he was denying his psychic abilities. This much, though, she could do. She summoned all of her feelings about Sam: her love, unconditional and pure; her pride, indubitable and shining; her grief that he should think so ill of himself that he not only regretted continuing his life but honestly believed that everyone else did; her determination that no matter what came in the future he would always know that one person at least loved him thoroughly and unconditionally. She poured those emotions into his mind, building a shell to keep them safe from all of the jagged memories and the encroaching shadows of his eternal self-doubt and shame. When she was done she soothed him into a restful slumber and laid him out onto the couch as best she could.

Castiel was there when she returned to awareness in Sam’s room, head tilted to the side. “Would not his bed be a more suitable place for him to rest?” he demanded.

“That bed isn’t even a suitable place for mice to sleep,” she retorted. “He needs a new mattress.” She pulled the blanket off the bed and tucked it around her baby. 

“I thank you for doing this for them, Mary. It is more than I could have done.” He glanced at Sam. “He looks comfortable.” 

“Good. He deserves it. You be good to him, Castiel.” 

“I will try, Mary.” He shook her hand. “Merry Christmas.” 

They left the room. “You decorated the library,” she observed.

“I did,” he admitted. “It seemed a shame to leave the decorations untouched, even though the Carpenter was actually born in –“

She held up a hand. “It’s the principle of the thing, Castiel. I think you might have picked up a little bit while you were human.” 

His cheeks reddened. “Perhaps a little bit.”

“Merry Christmas to you.”


End file.
